


Missing Piece

by esteefee



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Earth, Episode Related, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-29
Updated: 2009-04-29
Packaged: 2017-10-17 12:29:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/176863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esteefee/pseuds/esteefee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A <i>Return</i> story in which John discovers what he misses he most.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Missing Piece

John misses it like food, like he'd once missed Fritos and Pete's Wicked Ale when they were in Atlantis. He misses feeling the city beneath his skin, behind his eyes, as a sweet pressure in the back of his mind. She's gone. Atlantis is gone, lost to him, and he misses her.

Most of the time, though, he tells himself it's good to be back on Earth, land of Krispy Kremes and cheeseburgers and an endless supply of golf balls.

Really.

:::

When the Alterans booted them out, John remembers thinking _of course_ , because all good things only last long enough for him to get used to them. Because having a home that welcomed him, having a team that cared about him, having a posting where every day he had to use himself hard to succeed—it was all too good to last.

It's possible he misses Rodney as much as Atlantis, but John tries not to think about that, either.

:::

On G2S-351 John's team gets trapped in quicksand. Purple quicksand. They manage to sluggishly draw their way out by means of the rope John had in his pack and a hastily constructed grappling hook. John makes a mental note to requisition a new mess kit as he squishes his way back to the gate.

O'Neill is there, of course, when they gate back to SGC. He shouldn't laugh so damned hard—he could lose his dentures, John thinks meanly.

:::

John calls up Rodney that night and they shoot the shit. The usual stuff—why Val Kilmer made a better Batman, how it sucks that Cap'n Crunch will shred the top of your mouth if you don't let it soak long enough.

Rodney doesn't say, "I'm being wasted here. My mind is being wasted. I should be discovering my Grand Unified Theory and instead I'm babysitting idiots. I'm going insane."

John really doesn't say, "I'm dying. It feels like I'm dying and I'm just walking around pretending I'm not bleeding out."

Instead, John says, "Hey, you should come out for a visit some weekend."

Rodney says, "I suppose. Yes, I think I'll do that."

:::

John goes to pick him up at the airport. It's a dead-giveaway, if Rodney's keeping score, but then Rodney doesn't pay much attention to people-things, so John figures he's safe.

He shows up way too early and ends up eating a slice of ridiculously expensive airport pizza at the bar outside the security gate, a pint of red ale by his elbow.

Rodney walks out of the secure area and almost passes John completely, but then does a funny double-take and comes over. He's wrinkled and his hair is flat on the side and his eyes are blood-shot and he's beautiful. He's the first real thing John has seen in over a month.

John wipes his fingers on a napkin to give himself a second, then flashes Rodney his best smile.

"Jesus," Rodney says. "You look like crap."

"Thanks. That's real nice." And then there's this awkward moment when John wants nothing more than to touch Rodney; grab him, maybe; _hug_ him, even, and it seems like Rodney might be thinking something suspiciously along the same lines, except the moment goes on too long, and then Rodney almost offers his _hand_ , for chrissake, and John chuckles a little hoarsely and bangs Rodney's shoulder with his fist.

"Come on, let's go get you something to eat."

:::

Scotty's, his usual Friday joint, is out—John runs into too many other servicemen there, all unwinding after a tough week buried under the mountain. And for some reason he doesn't want to see anyone they know. He doesn't want to share Rodney's attention. That's the embarrassing truth.

So John takes them in his beat-up service car to the Chinese place down the block from his apartment. Rodney orders sweet 'n' sour pork, potstickers, and then sneaks next door to Starbucks and comes back with a grande he tries to hide under his T-shirt. He isn't fooling anyone, and Mrs. Kim very calmly brings an empty cup to the table and puts it in front of Rodney, who waits until she leaves to pour some of his coffee into the cup.

"Well, if they made decent coffee here," Rodney mumbles.

"How do you know they don't?"

"Because Chinese restaurants are famous for many things, including noodles long enough to wrap around a fire hydrant, but they do not do coffee. Not real coffee. Tea, yes. Coffee, no."

John leans an elbow on the table and very pointedly sips from his coffee cup, which is filled with, he has to admit, pretty crappy coffee, but he'd never tell Mrs. Kim that. John smacks his lips like it's the tastiest thing ever, just to see Rodney roll his eyes in annoyance.

"As if," Rodney sniffs, sounding so much like a fifteen year-old that John has to laugh.

"God, Rodney, I—" _I really missed you,_ John starts, then shakes his head and settles on the marginally less dangerous, "It's been a while."

"I know." Somehow Rodney makes it sound like he knows exactly what John really wanted to say.

John smiles down into his coffee cup. "So. Area 51, huh?"

Rodney takes a hasty look around, as if maybe the Lone Gunmen were sitting at a table nearby just waiting for Rodney to vindicate their most dearly-held conspiracy theories.

"It's not nearly as exciting as it sounds," Rodney says. "I've been reverse engineering the decrepit remains of an Ori fighter ship. Their stuff is," he waves his hands crazily and scrunches up his face, "all over the place. Poorly designed. Almost as bad as Wraith tech, except not as...sticky."

"Don't forget: Hiveships were smelly, too."

"Yeah."

Rodney looks suddenly deflated. John hadn't meant to head down that track and, anyway, it's ridiculous to get nostalgic about being captured by the Wraith. Except he _is_ , because fighting Wraith means being in Pegasus, and he misses it. Jesus. He misses Ronon and Teyla.

"Wonder how they're doing," Rodney says.

John hurriedly re-winds but he's pretty sure he didn't say anything out loud. Rodney's just on the same wavelength.

"Me, too," John mumbles and drinks the rest of his bad coffee.

:::

He'd thought about where Rodney would sleep before asking him over, and figured he'd just put Rodney in his own bed and take the couch. Rodney doesn't even pretend he isn't expecting it, and when they get home from dinner, goes into the bathroom and comes out in a pair of satiny striped pajamas, brown and cream, and wearing a pair of moccasin slippers.

He looks ridiculous, and familiar, and something weird happens to John's stomach. He wonders for a second if he caught alien tapeworms from the purple quicksand.

"Let me get the spare sheets and my pillow, and then the bedroom's all yours," John says, feeling a little hysterical. Rodney yawns widely and nods, then rubs his eyes.

The tapeworm feeling is still there after John gets done setting up the couch. He lies on his back, his favorite pillow folded in half under his head, and rests his hands on his stomach, wondering if he's losing his mind. But he lets his hands drift down and reaches into his shorts, thinks about Rodney's mouth, Rodney's chest and hands, and feels himself getting hard.

 _God, what a mess,_ John thinks, and turns over, shoves it all away. Thinks about flying, and starts going through a pre-flight checklist, his favorite insomnia cure. He picks a Pave Hawk, because he probably won't ever get to touch a puddle-jumper again, and he's just finished checking that the aft fairing is secured when he drops off.

:::

The next morning, John makes sure to have some coffee ready by the time Rodney wakes up. It's sunny out when John opens the door to pick up the paper, and he's reading the classifieds when Rodney appears, hair wild, and with a really terrific pillow crease on his left cheek.

"Hey," John says, but gets no response; Rodney just shuffles forward, arms out, doing a good imitation of a zombie walk while he heads straight for the coffee maker.

John waits until Rodney's slurped down his first cup before saying, "So, what do you want to do today? We could call Carson if you wanted..."

Rodney gives him a considering frown and says, "Maybe tonight. Right now I need pancakes and eggs. And maybe some apple sausage."

"Ookay. We'll go to the diner. It's an easy walk."

They both get dressed and head out. It's weird walking beside Rodney without carrying a P-90 clipped to his chest. No glock strapped to his thigh, either. Rodney is blinking around at what Colorado Springs' main street has to offer, which isn't much at this end. Lumber and hardware and a Liquor Barn; a faded-looking flower shop; auto-parts and a convenience store. And Dotty's Blue Diner, which is crowded as usual on a Saturday, but John pushes his way in and finds them two adjacent seats at the counter.

"The pancakes are good," John says, feeling weirdly awkward and embarrassed for the place, for the way the linoleum counter is warped and the padding on the stools is uneven and cracked, making for an uncomfortable seat. John lives at the not-so-nice end of town, and though it's never bothered him much in the past, right now he wishes it had a little less rough charm and a little more sparkle.

"I'm sure." Rodney says, eying his fork, and then when the waitress, Wanda, comes their way, he gives his order and asks for bottled water, unopened, please. John cringes a little before he realizes Rodney's being oddly polite to her, and even thanks her before she turns to John.

John orders bacon and eggs and hash browns. Wanda cracks her gum and says, "Coffee, sugar?"

As soon as she leaves, Rodney rolls his eyes at John and says, "Sugar? Honey? Sweetie-lamb?" But there's something off in his voice. This isn't the McKay John remembers from Atlantis, and he wonders if maybe Rodney is feeling as uncertain as he is right now. It makes John feel a little better, and he slouches in his stool and cracks a joke about Rodney's windbreaker, which is an alarming shade of maroon just this side of blood.

"It was clean," Rodney says snippily. "And, anyway, coming from a fellow who can only match black with, oh, _black_ —"

"Hey, don't dis the black."

"'Dis'? Who are you? Salt-N-Pepa?"

"Oh, wow. Great reference, there, Mac Daddy. But really I'm going for more of the Eminem thing."

Rodney gives him an annoyed look, and John grins. "So, what do you want to do today?"

"You already asked me that. Really, it's up to you. I don't have any idea what there is on offer."

John scratches his head, thinking. His usual thing is to go rock-climbing on his day off, which is a definite no-way for Rodney, he knows. Still, there isn't a hell of a lot to do around here except go to the movies, and it's way too pretty a day to be stuck inside.

"Come on a hike with me?" John asks, then winces, waiting for the diatribe.

"All right."

"Come again?"

"All right! All right," Rodney says, looking up just as Wanda arrives with their plates. "That would be fine."

John marvels while he mashes up his eggs and then crumbles his bacon over the top. Rodney is already fork-deep in pancakes and syrup.

It's vaguely possible Rodney misses being in the field—it can't be fun being stuck in the lab at Area 51 all day long. And there's probably no one to haul Rodney out of there to get some fresh air once in a while.

John used to do that a lot. Rodney complained, but John could always tell it was just for show. Maybe Rodney misses it. Him.

"Great," John says, and takes a sip of his coffee, then winces and adds some sugar.

"Great."

John looks up and catches Rodney's eyes on him. And just like that he knows he was right—Rodney missed him, too.

It's good to know.

:::

"It's called a mountain _lion_ for a reason," Rodney yells as he swings his pack in a wide circle. "It wants to _eat_ us."

"It's just a baby," John counters, panting a little as he heaves another big rock. The damned thing has them cornered against a wall of stone, and it's just not giving up. "I think he wants to kiss you, Rodney," John says, a little panicked because he's running out of rocks. He should have brought his gun. Of _course_ he should have, because this is the two of them, and they can never go anywhere—

Rodney yelps, pulling John's attention from his one-eyed search for rocks. The cougar is slinking up on Rodney, ducking low under his swinging pack. John charges forward, yelling at the top of his lungs and waving his arms.

The cougar takes a swipe at him and catches him in the shin. John jumps back and then practically roars, "Fuck OFF, you piece of shit!" He reaches behind his back and finds his knife, pulling it from the sheath.

He has no idea what he's supposed to do with a hunting knife against a hundred and fifty pounds of claws and fangs, but just then Rodney yells again and swings his pack at the cougar's head, and the cat suddenly decides discretion is the better part of fucking with one half of AR-1, and turns tail and lopes off.

It turns its head to give one more growl over its shoulder, but John is already laughing with relief.

"I am never going _anywhere_ with you, ever again!" Rodney says. He's poking at the new slash-marks in his pack. "I'm glad I didn't bring my laptop."

"It would have been useful to brain him with," John says. He sits down on a boulder and untucks the cuff of his pants to pull them up. The cougar's paw had grazed him pretty good, a neat, diagonal slice across his shin that's bleeding freely. "You have a first aid kit in there?"

"Of course, I—what? Why?" Rodney comes over to him. "Oh, that's just great. Perfect." He kneels down next to John and starts rummaging through his pack. "This part I didn't miss," Rodney says. He pulls out a field dressing.

"It's nothing, just a scratch," John says, a little touched.

"Just a scratch teeming with deadly bacteria," Rodney mumbles angrily. He swipes an antiseptic wipe against the wound, then presses a pad against it and starts wrapping the dressing around John's leg.

"Hey," John says when Rodney finishes and is still just sitting there, his hands clenched on his thighs.

"John." Rodney looks up as he says it. His eyes are just...they're bleeding pain right at him, and John's breath catches a little. _God, Rodney._

"You never call me that."

"I could. More often. If you wanted," Rodney says diffidently.

Maybe it's because they're out in the wild, alone, or maybe it's because Rodney's hands had been so gentle and sure binding his leg, or maybe it's really because John just missed him so goddamned much—because Rodney is a piece of home, a _huge_ piece of what he can't live without—but John reaches out and puts his hand on Rodney's shoulder and tugs.

Not hard, because if he's wrong, Rodney should have an out. But Rodney leans in with the pull until he's on one hip and they are close—so close that all John has to do is tilt his head until Rodney's lips touch his.

It's terrifying—much more terrifying than a mountain lion—tasting Rodney's mouth, feeling the catch of his rough stubble. Having Rodney breathe into him, tongue twisting with John's, the chill of sweat drying on John's neck as his face heats.

He's kissing Rodney McKay.

John had always wondered what it would be like to have all of Rodney's attention for once. All of it, not just the snappy asides and the flickering glances, but Rodney's hands touching him with purpose, Rodney's lips moving against his in a slow, thoughtful slide that brings goosebumps to John's skin and makes his heart pound hard in his chest.

It's terrifying, but in the best possible way.

"I missed this," John says nonsensically when he finally pulls back, and Rodney frowns at him for a moment before his face clears. His eyes look bright. So bright.

"Me, too."

"I mean, how did I _miss_ this?"

"Because you're a nincompoop," Rodney says, and kisses him again.

:::

They walk back to John's car—slowly, because John's limping a little—and they're just settling in when John finally says what he meant to say all along.

"I know we're going to go back. You'll get us there somehow, Rodney."

Rodney smiles crookedly. "You're right about that."

John clears the lump in his throat and says, "But even if we never did—even if—you're the one piece I can't do without."

Rodney's eyes go wide, and after a moment he reaches out.

John grabs his hand and hangs on.

  
_End._   



End file.
